by Nina Lane
“You have no idea what I want to do with you,” I muttered.
“Well, then.” She shifted, her naked breasts rubbing against my shirt, her ass sliding over my prick. “You’ll just have to show me.”
Oh, I will. I breathed her in and sank my face against her shoulder.
It was good for my ego, showing her how hot things could be, watching her arousal, getting her off. It was good for me too, this blinding spell of release. Staggered my senses. Obliterated everything except us alone.
I tightened my hands on her hips. A sudden dizziness filled my head.
Us. Alone.
Exactly the way I wanted it then.
Exactly the way I want it now.
CHAPTER SIX
OLIVIA
JANUARY 19
ou’re sure you want to do this?” Over the phone, Allie sounds worried. And her anxiety doesn’t exactly inspire me with a bucketload of confidence.
“Yes, but I can’t promise I’ll be any help.” I scroll down the loan application on my computer screen.
I’ve filled out all the information as best I can, though I didn’t list any of Dean’s financial information as collateral. Shortly after we married, Dean merged our finances—or, more accurately, made me joint owner of all his accounts. I still have my own checking and savings accounts, but I haven’t used either very often since we got married.
“Did you get the business plan I sent you?” Allie asks. “Brent helped me revise it, so it’s solid.”
“Yes, I’ve already included it. Here’s the bank guy’s info, in case he contacts you.” I give her the name of the loan officer with whom I’ve corresponded about the application. “I’m sending it right now, so he said we should hear back soon.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know if he calls. Thanks, Liv.”
We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up. I turn off my cell phone and stare at the meager numbers on my loan application. I am struck, with sudden and unwelcome force, by the realization that I do not have collateral of my own… or much of anything else either.
Dean pays the rent on our apartment, plus bills, groceries, and utilities. I have full access to our joint checking and savings accounts, credit cards, investment accounts, stocks, bonds—but all the money is Dean’s. He pays the credit card bill. He even pays for my subscriptions to a few gardening and entertainment magazines. His assets are the reason he established a living will and trust, and why he is already laying the groundwork for including the baby in everything.
I take a breath and hit the send button to submit my loan application. Your information has been received and will be processed shortly.
Fear ripples down my spine.
Without my husband, I have so little of my own. I don’t know how I let that happen. All those years of trying to stay on my feet, plant myself somewhere—leaving my mother when I was thirteen, finishing high school, the full scholarship to Fieldbrook College, even battling the aftermath of what happened there, then finally graduating from the University of Wisconsin—all of that was supposed to set me on a path toward self-reliance.
I close my laptop—a birthday present from Dean last year—and push away from the desk. The bedroom door is open, but no noise drifts up the stairs from either the kitchen or the living room. Dean has gone out for a run, and I have no idea where his mother and sister are.
I also haven’t seen Helen Morgan since we arrived a few days ago.
I go downstairs. Everything is silent and still, aside from the slight movement of the curtains in front of the open windows.
Taupe walls and ceramic-tiled floors dominate the rooms, accented with mission-style, walnut furniture, colorful pottery and paintings, and lush area rugs. I look out onto the garden, which hasn’t changed since the first and last time I was here five years ago. Huge, potted plants line the terrace around wooden patio furniture tossed with bright, overstuffed cushions.
Whoever decorated the West home would have a field day with that big house Dean wants to buy in Mirror Lake.
I pause at the fireplace in the living room. Framed photographs line the mantel and the built-in bookshelves on either side. I remember them—all pictures of the Wests smiling at the camera or displaying some accomplishment.
There’s one of Dean accepting his doctorate, another of Richard West shaking hands with the governor and various other people, Paige’s graduation picture, Joanna receiving some award. Archer West is the least represented, with only two photos of him as a gap-toothed boy and one of him in a formal family portrait.
I stare at the image of Archer West. Dean had said that his brother was on his way back from LA. I assume that means he’ll be here any day now.
Ignoring a flash of apprehension, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I have no idea what anyone’s dinner plans are, but I figure it won’t hurt to make something.
Buoyed by the idea of being useful, I scrounge around and decide to make chicken with onions and garlic, roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf. I’m halfway through mixing up a marinade when the front door opens. Paige’s and Joanna’s voices drift into the kitchen.
“Oh.” Joanna stops, her gaze going to the counter where I’m working on the mise en place. “Hello, Olivia.”
“Hi.” I give her a little wave, keeping my voice cheerful. I am no fan of either Joanna or Richard West, but I’ll be damned if I’ll contribute to this family’s tension. I’m going to do exactly what I told Dean I would do—be here for him and prove myself to the Wests.
“I just thought I’d make a few dishes,” I say.
“That’s nice.” Joanna puts her handbag on the counter. “I’m going to go and take a little nap. Paige, don’t bother waking me for dinner.”
After she leaves the kitchen, I glance at Paige.
“How’s your father?”
“Anxious to get the surgery over with.” Paige watches me as I start to peel an onion. “Helen is planning to join us for dinner.”
“That’s fine. There’s plenty of chicken.”
Paige gives a short nod before going into the living room. I peel a few cloves of garlic, losing myself in the mundane tasks of chopping, slicing, seasoning. The door bangs open again and Dean comes in, sweaty and energized from his run.
“Smells great.” He grabs a bottled water from the refrigerator.
I wrinkle my nose at him. “Unlike you.”
“Point taken.” He drops a kiss on the back of my neck and goes upstairs.
I finish marinating the chicken, wash and season the asparagus, and start the rice. Calculating I can have everything on the table in an hour, I follow Dean upstairs to change into something nicer for dinner.
I pull off my jeans, glancing at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. I’m nine weeks pregnant and definitely growing. My belly bulges outward and my breasts are tender, but my nausea has waned. And I feel sexy, which is unnerving since it seems wholly inappropriate to want to be turned on when my husband is in the middle of a family crisis.
Then again, sex has always been an important part of our relationship—an intensely personal dynamic that we established early on. Even if hormones account partly for my lustiness, there is also the undeniable knowledge that Dean and I haven’t yet had a chance to focus entirely on us again.
Soon, I promise myself, thinking of the fantasy exchange I suggested and the possibility of renewing our vows. Or getting matching tattoos.
Amused by the idea of Professor West sporting a tattoo of an anchor or a heart, I dress in a gray skirt and white blouse. I smooth the skirt over my hips and hope it doesn’t look as tight as it is beginning to feel. I’m fastening on a pair of earrings when Dean’s cell phone rings on the nightstand.
“Your phone’s ringing,” I call over the sound of the shower.
“Can you get it?” he shouts back. “Might be the realtor.”
I pick up the phone and look at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. “Dean West’s phone.”
; There’s a crackle of noise, then a man’s deep voice. “Hello? Is that Liv?”
“This is Liv, yes.”
“Liv, it’s Simon. Simon Fletcher.”
“Simon?” I smile with affection, picturing the big, bearded friend whom Dean has known since his graduate school days. “Where are you?”
“Tuscany. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Hold on a sec.” I move toward the window under the unscientific belief that it will improve the connection. “Simon, how are you?”
“Great. I’m on sabbatical for the year to work on a dig. Medieval monastery not far from Lucca. Been here for three months now, spent the holidays in Rome. It’s good to hear you. How’re you and the professor?”
“Fine, thanks. We’re in California right now, visiting his family.”
“Yeah, I called King’s, and they told me he’d be back when the semester starts. I wanted to congratulate him on his IHR grant and see if I can talk him into a trip out here. Tried to get him to join us last semester, but he said things were too busy. I just heard a group from Cambridge is coming down in the next month. They’ve got enough money to bring Dean on as advisor when we start excavating a new area. Bunch of people here’d like to see him again too.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“I’m sending him an email with all the info. You want me to CC you on it? I’ll send the link to the excavation diary.”
“Sure, I’d love to read about it.” I turn at the sound of Dean emerging from the bathroom. He’s rubbing his hair with a towel as he looks at me inquisitively.
“Simon Fletcher,” I tell him, pointing to the phone. “Simon, hold on. Here’s Dean.”
Dean tosses the towel onto a chair and takes the phone from me. A grin breaks out on his face as he hears Simon’s booming voice. “You’re calling from Altopascio? How’s it going? What have you found?”
They engage in a great deal of talk about the Camaldolese monastery—excavation of a perimeter wall, a burial site, sacred objects, plans for the different areas—before Dean falls silent, apparently listening to Simon’s proposal to join the team.
I watch my husband, recognizing his anticipation at the thought of an excavation, the uncovering of secrets hidden in each new discovery. He hasn’t had much chance to do fieldwork since earning his doctorate, and I know he misses it. He loves being outdoors, going on field surveys, the manual labor of digging in the ground and working with tools, the diversity of consulting with technicians, excavation crews, scientists.
“I don’t see it happening this semester, but maybe sometime later,” Dean says into the phone.
I shake my head to stop his refusal and indicate that he should call Simon back. They talk for a few more minutes before Dean ends the call with a promise to be in touch. He tosses the phone onto the bed and looks at me.
“Dean.” Even though I know this is a long shot, I feel the need to try. “You should go.”
“No way.”
“I could come with you.”
“Liv, I’m not going to Italy when you’re pregnant. And neither are you. Besides, I have classes this semester.”
“King’s would let you take a few weeks off, especially with the IHR grant.”
“It would be more like a few months, if I agree to serve as advisor.” Dean reaches for the towel and loops it around the back of his neck. “California is as far as either of us is traveling. And as soon as we get back to Mirror Lake, we’re staying there until the baby is born.”
“You won’t go on a dig anytime soon after the baby is born either,” I say. “This might be your last chance for quite a while.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Dean approaches me. The delicious, soapy scent of his skin curls through me like a ribbon. “I’m not going.”
I gaze at the hollow of his throat, where a single drop of water lingers. He puts his hand beneath my chin and lifts my face so our eyes meet.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.
“I just feel like this is something you should do.”
“I don’t want to, Liv.”
“If I weren’t pregnant, you would go.”
“What’s the point of thinking about what either of us would do if you weren’t pregnant? You are pregnant. I couldn’t care less about a dig. You’re all that matters, and I’m not leaving you.”
“It’s strange though, isn’t it?” I reach out to brush the drop of water from his throat. “Thinking about all the stuff that will change.”
“Yes, it is. Which is exactly why I’m not leaving you.”
“Dean?”
“Right here.”
“Do you want a baby?” I finally ask.
“No.”
My heart almost stops. “No?”
“I don’t want a baby.” Dean puts his hand on my belly, spreading his fingers out. “But I do want this baby. I want our baby.”
I smile, relief filling me like light. “Good, because that’s all I’ve got.”
“You’ve got much more than that, Mrs. West.”
He holds up his left hand, palm out. I put my palm against his so our wedding bands click. He moves his hand over. We clasp our fingers together. Then Dean takes my ponytail in his other hand and gently pulls my head back so he can kiss me.
“There’s just one thing…” he murmurs.
“What?”
“If it’s a boy, can we name it Chaucer?”
I break away from him with a laugh. He frowns.
“Why are you laughing? Chaucer is a great name for our baby.”
“In your dreams.”
“Where you always are,” he remarks.
“Good one, professor.” I pat his cheek. “Now, you’d better get dressed. Helen is coming for dinner, so you’ll have a rapt audience if you want to discuss the dimensions of cathedral elevation.”
“What about the name Abelard?” he calls after me as I head downstairs.
“What about the name Ezekiel?” I call back.
“That’s biblical, not medieval.”
I’m still smiling as I go into the kitchen. Helen is already there, looking elegant in slacks and a sage-green cashmere sweater. She and Paige are talking, but they both stop when they see me.
I greet them politely and put on an apron from the utility closet before finishing up the dinner preparations. Paige pours several glasses of wine and offers me one.
“No, thanks.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You’ve stopped drinking?”
What a way to phrase that question.
“I’ve never been much of a drinker,” I say, more for Helen’s benefit than Paige’s.
“Well, one glass won’t hurt.” She’s still holding it out to me.
“No, really, I’d prefer water.”
Paige stares at me for a minute, then shrugs. As she turns away, she and Helen exchange glances. I wonder what silent message has just passed between them. They’re both radiating coolness in my direction, which shouldn’t surprise me.
“So.” I take a glass and fill it with water from the refrigerator dispenser. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Since high school,” Paige replies. “Helen’s family moved in down the street when I was fourteen. She and Dean were in the same grade, right?”
“Mmm. Graduated the same year, though we didn’t start dating until grad school.”
Paige sighs and reaches for the wine. “You guys were so good together.”
Helen smiles tightly. “Oh, did I tell you my parents got back from Spain last week? They had a wonderful time.”
She and Paige sit at the table as Helen starts talking about all the places her parents visited. Paige hangs on every word, interjecting with awed remarks and questions. “They did, really? That must have been beautiful. Have you been there? What was it like?”
I can almost see the girl-crush Paige has harbored for years, the awe she has for this sophisticated woman. Paige must have been thrilled when her older brother married elegant, ambit
ious Helen.
A rush of sympathy goes through me. Paige has had it rough too. I know what it’s like to crave something stable and secure, which likely is what Paige has also done since childhood. When Helen and Dean married, Paige probably saw them as the epitome of the perfect marriage—a strong, familial unit her own parents never were. And then her illusion shattered when Dean and Helen divorced.
No wonder she doesn’t like me.
“Have you ever been to Spain, Liv?” Paige asks me.
I shake my head.“I’ve been to France a few times with Dean, though.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Both women look as if I’d mentioned Dean in order to rub salt in their wounds.
Helen turns back to Paige and starts talking about Seville. I finish making dinner while listening, glad when Dean comes into the kitchen. He squeezes my shoulder in silent apology for having taken so long.
Paige helps me get dinner on the table. I eat in relative silence while Dean, Helen, and Paige talk, and Helen asks Dean if he’s interested in guest lecturing for one of her classes at Stanford next week.
“I have a class on the nineteenth-century design movement, so maybe you could talk about medieval aesthetics and architecture?” Helen asks, passing a plate of asparagus to Paige. “Maybe stained glass?”
“I don’t have a lecture written up on that, but I could put one together,” Dean says.
“It’s not a big class, just fifteen undergrads. You could make it more of a discussion.”
“Sure.”
Helen looks pleased. “I’ll send out an email announcement to the department. Some of the medieval history students will want to sit in, too.”
They launch into a discussion of what texts and pieces they should focus on.
I can’t detect any anger between Helen and Dean. No lingering bitterness or blame either, as if all the unpleasant emotions have been lost in time. They’re like polite colleagues now, discussing their work and mutual acquaintances.
After dinner, Dean and I wash the dishes and clean the kitchen, then tell the other women good night and head upstairs. Dean checks on his mother while I change into my nightgown and brush my teeth.